


Love Lies Alone

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: And get him the hell out of the Fire Nation like yesterday, And make him a cup of tea, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Pre-Canon, Siblings, Someone hug that child, Tea, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko has severe abandonment issues and no self-worth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24989614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: The day Ursa kissed him goodbye was the day the Fire Nation turned coldTen-year-old Zuko desperately tries to makes sense of a world in which his mother could leave him.He can't. Not by himself anyway.*General Iroh returns from the front, alone. He has lost his son, his father, his position in the world. The only spark of warmth is his young nephew, and even that flame seems about to be snuffed out.Iroh is determined to keep that one last hope burning.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 419





	1. Make a Wish

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing A:tLA. I have a lot of fic percolating through my head. I hope it isn't awful!

There are two known truths in Zuko’s world: Azula lies and his mother loves him. _His mother loves him_. All else is subject to the ever changing whims of this strange, cruel fate he found himself born into.

_Azula lies._

_Mom loves me._

He repeats them over and over again, in his head when faced with his sister spouting her nonsense, in front of his father at his worst, the truth loud and solid enough to drown out the barrage of Ozai’s own words.

_Nothing. You are nothing. Less than nothing._

His mother loves him.

No matter how worthless his father believes he is (and maybe that’s true too) beyond all else—

“Mom loves me.”

He whispers it to himself in the darkness in the middle of the night, alone in the sea of his bed. He says it out loud, because maybe it will be even more real if he can feel the words on his tongue and hear them in his ears. In the silence, those words are all Zuko has left of his mother.

 _Azula lies_.

But she hadn’t, had she? That night she’d come skipping into his room, triumphant and cruel and—

_Dad’s gonna kill you and Mom’s gone._

Not lying.

Not this time.

And if that truth can be shredded, what of the other one?

_Azula lies._

_Mom loves me._

But his mother left. One last kiss, then nothing. Taking the last faint scrap of certainty with her. And what is he left with now?

Zuko clings to his covers. It’s cold tonight. He shivers. 

Everything is different, changed, wrong.

This world where Azula tells the truth, and Mom . . .

* * *

Piece by piece, Zuko puts himself together each morning and practices living in a world without her. He’s learnt some tricks—avoiding the places that were hers, _theirs_ , and the things he used to love ( _stories, music, the things Mom called beautiful and Father called worthless)_. Meals are the hardest. Zuko stares at his bowl and focuses on the grains of rice and Azula’s rambling and Father’s praise instead of the empty seat opposite his own. 

If he doesn’t look up, he won’t see that she’s gone. She was so quiet when it wasn’t just the two of them that it’s easy to pretend. So long as he doesn’t look—

A fist on the table forces his head up. 

His mother’s empty seat is worse than the Firelord’s face. 

“Your sister asked you a question, Zuko.”

“Forgive me. Father. Azula.” His voice sounds strange in his own ears, wispy and distant, like dissipating smoke. He doesn’t even have the energy to try. Even though he knows, with painful precision, what his father is thinking. 

“So as I was _saying—”_ Even Azula’s voice is a knife in the neck. “—you’ve been so miserable, Zuko, I wanted to do something nice for you.” She snaps her fingers gleefully and at once his untouched bowl of rice is replaced by a golden plate topped with a round cake coated in bright, fiery syrup.

The same cake he’d had for his birthday.

The one Mom had made.

He’d been beside her, downstairs in the kitchen, leaning over her arm as she worked, fascinated by the strange craft. She used to bake all the time, she’d told him, pouring the mix into the bowl-pan. At home, it was normal. 

_I’ll take you there one day_ , she promised, offering Zuko the spoon. 

How could anything in the world be better than cake batter? he’d thought until the finished confection was set out before him with ten candles places neatly around it. 

They blazed at a single gesture of Ursa’s hand, twinkling like stars.

_Make a wish, darling._

What had he wished for?

 _Stay with me. Stay like this._ _Forever_. 

Mom had restrained Azula just long enough to give Zuko time to blow out his birthday candles. Azula had wailed. Something about it not being fair. It hadn’t mattered. It was his day. 

_Make a wish . . ._

“Aren’t you going to say thank you, brother?”

“Thank you, Azula.”

The sight of it turns his stomach. He hasn’t eaten in days. Not since— you know. If he touches it, he’ll throw up. That is not permissible at the Firelord’s table. 

Zuko has worked hard to avoid even the risk of risk. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t feel, he does nothing that might conduct Ozai’s displeasure. Azula knows that. Azula is testing him. Pushing him.

Azula always wins. 

There’s a lump lodged in his throat. There’s no way it’ll let anything down. It’s next to impossible to breathe, much less swallow cake. 

Zuko does his best. 

He clears his throat and rises. Bows to his father, his sister. He will tell them he is full (the untouched dinner bowl, evidence of the lie, has already been cleared) and that they can enjoy it tomorrow, in a better moment. He will even apologize to Azula for disappointing her.

“I—”

“Sit.”

His body freezes (When did it become so cold in the Fire Nation?) fingers clamped around the carved back of the chair. His mind begs him to obey. He has to. There is no choice. The cake sits there, waiting for him. Mom’s empty chair watches him. If she was here, she would be the barrier between them. Maybe not impregnable, not fully, but enough. 

Zuko alone has never been more aware of how small he is. 

It doesn’t matter than he hasn’t eaten in days. It doesn’t matter that there’s a lump in his throat big enough to choke him, or that his stomach contains nothing but acid.

It doesn’t matter.

He falls to his knees and vomits. 

“Ew,” says Azula. 

Cold sweat beads on his brow. He can’t stop retching. It’s like the little that left inside of him, after his heart was ripped out, is done too. Leaving with her. Leaving him alone. 

_I don’t want to be here._

Zuko’s eyes burn. He’s not crying. It’s not that.They’re just watering. He can’t help that. It’s not his fault. 

Like that’s ever mattered

“Get up.”

The words are distant, dazed. Not real.

The kick in his ribs is. His sister’s giggle. 

“Up, boy.”

The hand in his hair, dragging him up, ripping him apart. 

The cake rises to meet him as he’s thrown back in his chair. 

“Eat,” the Firelord commands. 

* * *

After his father leaves him that evening, Zuko gives into his tears. 

It’s okay. There are orders not to check on him. No-one will see, no-one will give him away. He is safe in his bedroom. 

His body hurts. It isn’t broken—nothing’s broken—but it feels like it is. Battered. Bruised. Burned. 

He lies on his stomach, cool air on his back. It prickles, stings, but it’s getting better. Really. It could’ve been worse. Really. He’s witnessed what his father does to _other people_. Those he does not care about. Zuko knows he is—

_Lucky?_

Even the thought is a lie.

Luck is not something he has ever possessed. 

_People like us, my love, we have to make our own luck._

There is no ‘us’ now. Only him. 

His pillow is hot and wet and suffocating, but he can’t lie on his back yet. He can barely move at all. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last time, but this is the first time Mom hasn’t come to him afterwards to heal and hold him, and remind him that there’s someone in this world who loves him.

_People like us._

Where did she go?

Why did she go?

_Why did she leave me?_

The questions turns over and over, like a rolling rock pushed from the top of a mountain, gathering speed beyond any hope of control until there’s nothing left inside him but _why why why?_

A breeze floats in from the open window, disturbing the flimsy curtains. 

Like a ghost. 

“ _Make a wish, Zuko_.”

_I wish . . ._

_I wish I was dead._

“Uncle’s back.”

He startles awake, whether from a dream or a doze he doesn’t remember slipping into. Azula stands over him, arms crossed. 

Zuko turns his face away. “You shouldn’t be here. Dad’ll be mad.”

Azula scrambles to sit beside him. “Not with me.”

That’s true. 

She pokes him and he cries out. The weals licked all around his side. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” she says. “Did you hear me? I said Uncle’s back?”

“Uncle Iroh?”

“No, our _other_ uncle.” Azula roles her eyes, a contemptuous flick to the ceiling. “The Great _General_ abandoned his troops as soon as it got hard. He’s just arrived. He’s with Dad.”

To come back to this, Zuko thinks. Everything different, everything wrong. Losing a son, a father, and his place on the Fire Throne. Zuko swallows. Uncle Iroh was always kind to him, but he won’t want to be bothered with him now. Not with everything else. 

“Why’re you telling me this, Azula?”

She shrugs. “It’s not as if anyone else is going to tell you anything, is it?” She smirks. “You need me.”

“I don’t need anything,” Zuko mutters, closing his eyes. He wishes she would just go away and leave him alone. 

She jabs him again, more viciously this time. A finger right in the welt. Zuko grits his teeth. He won’t give his little sister the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. 

“Yeah you do. I’m all you have now. Dad hates you, you know that right?”

He does. “Shut up, Azula.”

“Why? Can’t handle the truth? That’s what got you into this position in the first place. Pretending that Mom was any good at all. That she actually _liked_ you—”

“ _Shut up!”_

Flames scorch across the bed, narrowly missing Azula’s bare feet as she leaps free. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she spits right back. “Dad hates you and he wants you _dead_. You need an ally now Mom gave up on you. You’re too weak to survive on your own.”

_Well, maybe I don’t want to survive at all._

“Get out,” he whispers.

“I’ll tell him,” Azula says viciously. “I’ll tell him you were crying. I’ll go right now unless you stop being mean to me.”

“ _What do you want from me?”_ The words burn as they rip from his throat. He has nothing left to give, his sister or himself. Mom took everything. “Leave me _alone!_ ”

Her face freezes in a mask of fury that looks so much like Father, Zuko cringes. 

“Fine,” she spits. “But you’ll be sorry.”

From any other nine-year-old, the threat would’ve been nothing more than a childish display of petulance. From Azula, Princess of the Fire Nation, it is a decree. 

He should’ve done it, Zuko thinks desperately as his little sister turns on her heel and stalks away, no doubt to make good on her promise. He should’ve just let her stay and torment him. He has to be better at ignoring her. More patient. It was one thing when it was him and Mom, and Azula and Father, but now—

There is no-one left to defend him against either of them. 

_Idiot_. 

If Uncle Iroh has returned, Father will be holed up in conversation. So much has happened in the last week. Too much. Azula won’t care. She’ll go straight in and interrupt, and it’ll be Zuko’s fault. Retribution will be dealt with brutal efficiency so everyone can get back to more important matters as soon as possible.

Zuko’s throat closes up. 

He has minutes at most to make a decision. He won’t survive another beating, not two in one night. He hadn’t meant what he’d thought. He wants to survive.

 _He wants to live_. 

_So_ _move_. 

_Move now._

And go where?

_Doesn’t matter. Anywhere’s better than here._

Zuko isn’t sure that’s true.

The devil you know—

Footsteps on the floorboards. 

_Run._

Azula’s probably with Father, eager to watch. Hungry for blood. 

They will both devour him if he stays. Father and sister.

_Run, Zuko!_

The voice in his head sounds enough like Mom to make him move. It’s hard. He grits his teeth against the pain in his back and stiffness of his muscles. Pulling on a shirt is almost too much, but he makes himself dress quickly and move move _move_!

The footsteps are on the landing outside his door. There’s no escape that way. Zuko hobbles to the open window and leans out. The night air is balmy and humid. His bedroom is three floors up. That’s a long way to fall. 

The click of the door strips away any lasting caution. 

He is barely out of the window and clinging to vines when his name in Ozai’s voice shudders the whole way through him. Zuko holds his breath and presses hard to the outer-wall of the palace. Ozai leans out right above him, searching without seeing, then disappears with a curse for Zuko. 

“Idiot boy.” 

Hand below hand, one step at a time, Zuko climbs down the vines and hits the ground hard. He grits his teeth and gathers his senses. He has to be quick and quiet and brave. The only way out he knows is through the front gates, heavily guarded by Fire Nation soldiers. They will see him, they will know him, there is no excuse he can conjure that could explain why the Crown Prince has to leave the grounds unaccompanied so late. 

There’s no time to think. They will be looking for him already. Hunting him down. Hungry to snag him and earn some sort of meagre favor from the Fire Lord. 

_Quick, quiet, brave._

Easier said than done. Even just stepping out of the safety of the palace’s shadow makes his stomach coil. There’s a gap, over there in that wall. It’s only small, but so is he. 

The courtyard looks bigger than before. He’s run it countless times, back and forth. It takes less than a minute at his best speed. 

The longer he waits, the fewer his chances.

Zuko takes a deep breath. _One, two, three—_

He runs, zipping as fast as he can with every bit of himself focused on the slim gap in the wall, praying praying praying he’ll make it—

“Halt!” There is no pause between the order and the fire at his feet that trips and sends him skidding across the ground, gravel ripping into his chin, his palms, his knees. 

Zuko groans, the taste of dirt mingling with the blood slick across his tongue. 

As a gloved hand locks around his arm and drags him up, he recrafts himself into the prince his father wishes he was. 

“You have no right to touch me,” he snarls at the guard. “Don’t you know who I am? I am your Crown Prince. Not some common thief!”

The guard’s grip does not loosen. “And what is the crown prince doing, sneaking around at night? The Fire Lord is looking for you, _your highness_. Even you should know better than to keep him waiting.” 

“I was on my way,” says Zuko, fighting to keep the desperation inaudible. “I won’t tell you again to take your hand off me.”

Azula would’ve blasted the guard by now. Father’s been teaching her lightning.

No, Azula wouldn’t’ve been stupid enough to get herself caught. 

Zuko has the dizzy thought that he probably definitely deserves this as the guard starts to hustle him away, back to the palace. Back to Father. If he’d been quicker and quieter and braver, if he wasn’t such a Agni-forsaken _failure—_

Zuko’s jerked to an abrupt stop just around the corner approaching the main gates as the guard snaps to attention. “General.”

 _General_. 

Zuko’s face _flares_ , all too aware of what a hideous state he’s in. This isn’t how he wanted to reunite his uncle. 

“Prince Zuko, what have they done to you?” General Iroh’s voice is low and gentle, and somehow that makes it worse. 

Zuko grits his teeth, staring down at his feet. 

“Did you do this?” Iroh growls at the guard. 

“The boy ran,” the guard starts.

“The _boy_ is your prince and he will have your respect.”

Finally— _finally—_ the iron grip on his arm begins to give. The skin pulses hot and frightened.

“The Fire Lord sent for his highness,” the guard says. “I’m just following orders.”

“When the Fire Lord sees Prince Zuko looking like an Earth Kingdom rat, I’m sure he’ll have questions on how his guards follow through on orders. Would you like to answer those questions, or will you release his highness to me?”

The guard hesitates. Zuko knows that feeling—the choice between potential wrath or potential reward. It’s impossible to tell which you’ll get with Fire Lord Ozai. Of course, Zuko and Iroh both know perfectly well that there will be no consequences for any kind of damage inflicted on the prince. Iroh was with Ozai when Azula came telling tales. 

Zuko recoils. 

His uncle has always been kind—Zuko has kept every letter, every ‘Dear Nephew’ folded and stashed safely away out Azula’s thieving reach—but he’s not naive enough to suppose that kindness is unconditional, or that it will be automatically be extended now. 

Duty first, always. Especially now General Iroh has lost his position as heir to the throne and answers to Father and—

He stumbles at a shove from the guard and the last spark of his own fire goes out.

What’s the difference between being marched before his father by a guard or his uncle? 

It was always going to end the same. 

_Kneel, boy._

“Come, Prince Zuko. I have been looking forward to catching up with you.”

Zuko falters as his uncle starts towards his own chambers on the Northern side of the palace, the opposite direction from the Firelord’s chambers. 

“Wait, sir.”

General Iroh glances back.

Zuko keeps his head angled down. “Aren’t you . . . going to take me to Father?”

“Is that where you want to be?”

 _Is this some kind of test?_

Zuko stays rooted to the spot, heart hammering too loud to think. 

“Nephew.” Iroh returns and tips Zuko’s chin gently up, careful not to touch the damage. It doesn’t matter. The touch could be soft as a butterfly, and Zuko would still have flinched. 

A new line appears on the general’s face between the ones that mark grief and weariness. Zuko knows that line. Irritation. Barely concealed anger. 

His muscles bunch. 

"Come,” says the general. “Tea first. The rest can wait.”

  
  



	2. Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally intended this to be Iroh's PoV but, yeah, that didn't happen!

Zuko cradles the fragile china cup, decorated the delicate blue flowers, and focuses on the ripples in his tea. The cup is warm, the perfect temperature, but it stings his scraped palms. The scent of jasmine and chamomile weave through the steam and coax him unwillingly backwards to better times. He yearns to let himself be taken, but it’s a foolish, dangerous pretend. He will be dragged back to the present soon enough. Better not to dream.

It’s harder here, in his uncle’s chambers. 

Zuko senses the general moving around rather than watching him. It’s safer to keep his eyes fixed on his tea and just listen. They haven’t exchanged a word since Iroh led him away from the guard, in the opposite direction of Father. The silence is light and easy, with none of the oppressive tension Zuko is used to, but still. Unease prickles his skin and keeps him alert. He isn’t stupid. People can change for less than a blink, tempers can snap beneath one wrong breath. He has nothing but warm memories of his uncle, but Zuko is _not_ stupid. Everything is different now, and if his mother can leave, then Iroh can turn.

And, when all is said and done, he is still Father’s brother.

How much difference can there be between them really?

He thinks of Azula and squirms. 

“Drink, Prince Zuko. Tea makes everything better.”

Zuko dips his head obediently and sips, more to drown out his retort than anything. Because it isn’t true. No amount of tea will bring Mom back, or make Father like him, or save him from inevitable fire. It only pauses time for half a sweet moment, just long enough that you’re at risk of getting carried away and forgetting. 

Zuko doesn’t let himself forget. 

He has to be careful and smart and sharp if he wants to survive. 

And Zuko wants to survive. 

There is a picture of Lu Ten on the dresser, flanked by incense. It doesn’t look like him. Not the real, living him. This Lu Ten is a soldier, stone-serious. The Lu Ten that Zuko remembers always had his mouth open in a laugh, was bright and alive, and made Zuko feel bright and alive too. He couldn’t for one moment remember ever being afraid of his cousin. And now that cousin is gone. Just like that. Leaving the world a little colder, a little darker. Just like Mom. 

Zuko’s eyes _burn_ , and he hunches harder over his tea, praying praying praying he can control himself before the general notices. Princes don’t cry. Crown princes especially. All the rules imbedded in his skin over his few short years have been tightened beyond the point of bearable since Everything Changed. The little crimes are unforgiveable now. What had once earned him a sharp admonishment now earns him a slap. The old slap is now worth ten strikes from a fire-switch across his palms. He is brought before Father more frequently, and Father is losing patience. 

Zuko can’t keep up. 

“So tell me.” The general’s low voice coaxes Zuko’s eyes up. There is nothing but kindness on the older man’s face. “Where were you wandering to on this fine evening?”

“I—” Zuko clears his throat, drinks his tea, tries to swallow his stammer. “I don’t know. Anywhere. As you . . . as you say, sir, it’s a fine evening.”

“Ah, a desire for fresh air, was it? Yes, the palace can certainly be stifling. I believe our new Fire Lord keeps the whole place ten flames hotter than the last.” He laughs, deep and rumbling, and Zuko tries to emulate. It doesn’t go well. He has forgotten how to laugh. “But more seriously, nephew, I urge you to be cautious. Were anyone to suspect that you were doing anything other than taking a turn around the grounds, I fear it would not go well for you. You may not realize it, but you are precious.”

Zuko’s face _burns_. “That’s not . . . Forgive me, but—”

“Zuko.”

If he doesn’t set his cup down, he’ll drop it. Freed, his fingers twist in his lap. 

“You are precious,” the general repeats firmly. “You are the crown prince, the heir to the Fire Throne. Without you, the legacy falls.”

“Azula would be better than me,” Zuko whispers. “Father thinks so too. It would be better for everyone if I . . . if I . . .” 

_But I want to survive._

“She . . . She should’ve taken me with her.” The confession is tiny, so small it hardly exists outside his head. But it does. It lingers in the air and exists on its own. He can’t take it back now. “Everyone would’ve been happier. I-I don’t understand. I don’t know _why_. And I don’t . . . I don’t want . . . t-to be here.” 

The final syllable falls, and his whole body seizes up from the fear of the confession. It’s treason. Pure and simple. A prince who doesn’t want to be a prince. Who would rather run to nothing than stay and do his duty. 

_Weak, lazy, dishonorable._

They are all true. 

Every last word.

And Zuko can feel them all seared into his back.

 _I don’t want to be here_. 

A touch to his shoulder brings his scraped hands flying up to protect his face. A useless defence, but uncontrollable. Like a child’s hands would ever be enough to stay a blow. He waits for the touch to move to grab his wrist, to yank it down, to leave his face open for the slap.

It doesn’t. 

Zuko cannot breathe. 

He doesn’t know how to play this game, the steps to this particular dance. He doesn’t know what it means or what’s going to happen next or what’s expected or desired or—

A warm kiss presses into his crown. 

“I understand,” his uncle murmurs, and Zuko believes him. 

The Fire Lord keeps the palace burning hot, but his mother took all the warmth with her and left him cold.

Now, that lost warmth starts to seep little by little back into Zuko’s frozen body. 

He shudders, and Iroh catches him.

Zuko cries.

It’s exhausting and endless, and a relief, and it feels like he’s never going to stop. Zuko cries for Lu Ten and his mother, for the little sister who had been taught to hate, for his father who’d taught her, for the home that suffocates him and the legacy he cannot live up to. Most of all, Zuko cries for himself. 

By the time there are no more tears, there isn’t much of Zuko left at all. 

And still his uncle holds him. Close without being tight. Warm and steady, strong against the prince’s body that feels like nothing more than water. He lets Zuko be small and doesn’t ask anything more of him. 

“Stay, Uncle, please.”

“I promise.”

Zuko closes his eyes and relaxes. Promises and lies go hand-in-hand, but there’s something small, buried in the timbre of his uncle’s voice, that feels real. He grabs for it and holds it close, pressing it deep into the hole in his heart. 

They both know that this moment cannot last, not in a place like this. Soon, they will have to return and face the Fire Lord and all the duties and expectation this world commands of them both. 

There is a soldier seven steps away from Iroh’s chambers, sent to bring the prince before the Fire Lord, and a little girl waiting, hungry, for her brother’s blood. Love is dangerous, and the punishment dealt by Ozai will be intended for the general just as much as the prince. 

But that is the future.

For now, Zuko and Iroh are here, and they will survive together.


End file.
